


The past has its way of catching up

by StarrySkies282



Series: Heaven Help a Fool Who Falls in Love [9]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Awesome Wanda Maximoff, Clint has more wisdom than we give him credit for, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Red Room (Marvel), Sad, Self-Harm, but like not graphic, these two just need so many hugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-27 02:20:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21384478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarrySkies282/pseuds/StarrySkies282
Summary: She was slipping and she knew.She knew and there was nothing really she could do to stop it. To overcome the tide that would inevitably turn, losing her beneath its merciless waves.It was all she could do to try and continue on as normal, but the daily tasks, everything she normally did with such blinding efficiency, suddenly seemed so much more of a challenge than it had a few days ago.
Relationships: Wanda Maximoff/Natasha Romanov
Series: Heaven Help a Fool Who Falls in Love [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1424389
Comments: 5
Kudos: 88





	The past has its way of catching up

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo... next part. It’s slightly longer than I thought it would turn out to be. Also, because of school, haven’t had much time to edit so apologies in advance for any mistakes. Anyways, hope you all enjoy x

She was slipping and she knew.

She knew and there was nothing really she could do to stop it. To overcome the tide that would inevitably turn, losing her beneath its merciless waves.

It was all she could do to try and continue on as normal, but the daily tasks, everything she normally did with such blinding efficiency, suddenly seemed so much more of a challenge than it had a few days ago.

It wasn’t healthy and she knew.

_Seek help_ , something inside of her would cry out.

But at the same time, something else inside would dampen the cry down, instead telling her help was for the weak ones.

No, she could never.

She was made of marble. Made without weakness. Ruthless where others were not.

It was that voice that won out in these internal battles. The ones that no one saw. The ones that left no marks, no visible scars save for the dark circles growing beneath her eyes.

Then again, she had been trained to conceal.

Her teammates wouldn’t notice, wouldn’t wonder.

_Teammates_,  she hears, the thing inside of her scoffing.  _How could you ever work with anyone else without having an ulterior motive?_

It was right. She couldn’t.

That was how she had been built.

Not to love, not to care. Just to finish the mission.

And so it remained. Concealed. Because that was what she did best.

_You are the best of us._

_No!_ Something inside of her would lash out, trying to crawl its way out.

_No? Well who are you then?_ The other thing would answer.

“I am one of twenty-eight black widow agents with the red room,” she recites to herself. She knows it off by heart.

Yes, she was Natalia.

Natalia the monster. Who killed and lied and tortured and spied. And monsters did not have friends. Much less  _gir_l friends.

_It will pass_ , she said to herself, on one of the better days, when she had slightly more clarity than usual.

_No, it will not. This is you. This is the life you were destined for._

The voice was right.

Attachments made you weak.

_ Cut them off. You are only here for intel. Only for what is necessary. Nothing more . _

She trained in the ground floor gym. The one less used. Avoided the others on team games nights. Took her meals, on the nights she thought she deserved them, alone, in the confines of her room.

She took on more work, more paperwork, despite detesting it, just to isolate herself further. So there was an excuse for her absences, for her withdrawal: she was busy.

_Good. You are doing better. Fulfilling your purpose._

At least she could do that right.

If she saw the hurt in Wanda Maximoff’s eyes when she told her she was busy, if she saw the way her mouth drooped when she said she had somewhere else to be, it didn’t register. She didn’t care. What was Wanda to her?

_Exactly_ , said the voice.

Still, time goes on, possibly weeks, Natasha—no—Natalia can’t quite tell.

She has to distance herself from it all.

_Monster_ .

Her own reflection stares back at her. The fire-red hair, the green eyes. Her, and yet, somehow not her.

Who was she? Just a collection of lies and circumstances and a trail of death miles long. 

_I am the monster_,  she thinks morosely.

_Yes_,  leaps the voice.  _You are_.

_‘You don’t deserve this. Her_ _,’_ is what she hears, anytime she reaches something that is anywhere close to some respite, if she so much as glances in Wanda’s direction, let alone smiles at her.

“No,” she finds herself saying to Wanda, who looks a little downcast.

Something inside of Natasha stirs. Guilt, perhaps.

_Stop_ says the voice.

“Perhaps another time?” Her voice uplifting at the end of the question, a little hopeful, a little apprehensive.

She finds she can’t quite outrightly say no.

“Maybe,” she settles on, longing to reach out and caress the brunette tresses framing the face of the girl standing before her. “Another time, when I’m not so busy with all the paperwork.” She aims for a joke, she’s been trained to know that sort of thing often works, to relieve suspicion, but it falls flat.

Because really, whatever has begun to stir inside of her wanted to say yes, to go with Wanda to the movies, to share her popcorn, to laugh.

But she couldn’t. That life was not hers to have.

She had a mission, a purpose. That was all.

“Oh,” she hears, and Wanda is gone.

——

“Later,” she tells her when the girl comes to her, asking for help with training.

“When?”

_ She’s so desperate.  Weak _ , thinks Natasha.

“When I’m back,” she lies. She has no intention of helping.

But for some reason she can’t tell her that straight.

So she leaves, under the guise of a mission. Because despite all, she just can’t tell her the truth. 

She’s gone for three weeks, and sure enough, without fail, Wanda is waiting for her when she returns.

She’s in the kitchen, and she knows it’s a sign of weakness, but God does she need coffee right now.

“Hey,” comes Wanda’s soft voice, her hands balled up in the sleeves of her cardigan. 

Natasha doesn’t make a response, just looks up, gives her a quick glance, and goes back to the coffee.

She doesn’t deserve this. Her. The affection, the care, anything that came with it. 

_No, you don’t._

And yet still, she feels the regret wash over her. The feeling that she shouldn’t treat her like that.

She deserves better. Not a monster. Someone who knows who they truly are. Not like her. Of course not her. Who would ever hope for her?

She hears her say something, a request she thinks, to go somewhere for dinner, perhaps.

It’s one of those quiet times when the others are away and it apart from them it’s just Rhodey and Vision in the compound.

She could go, treat it like a mission. But she knows, if she does go, she’ll become attached, more involved than she should. And that can’t happen. Love is for children.

“I’m kinda tired,” her voice comes out, harshly and she doesn’t quite recognise it.

She sees Wanda turn away, without response, and leave and the rain lashes against the panes from the outside, reflecting the turmoil inside her, Natasha thinks bitterly.

_It’s what I deserve_ , thinks Natasha.

_Yes, it is._

_But does she? Does Wanda deserve this?_ Asks something stirring within her 

Obviously not, but what can she do?

_Who could ever want you. You are nothing. There is no place here for you. You think any of them care for you? It is your skill, what you can offer, not you that they stick around for._

Suddenly she doesn’t feel the need for the coffee anymore.

In the distance, the thunder rumbles and Natasha feels the need to break something, to destroy something.

——

The punching bag is cool against her fists. Repeatedly she punches, each jab with meaning, her jaw set.

She continues, the sound of her hand against the bag just audible above the storm outside.

In another time, perhaps, she could be with Wanda, they’d be at that restaurant, watching the rain, laughing, smiling.

She punches harder, hoping the pain will clear the images. It doesn’t.

Her knuckles are raw, bloodied.

_Again_,  she hears a voice.  _Harder_ .

She complies until blood is streaming down her hand to her wrist and the bag splits, falling clattering to the ground.

A strike of lightning illuminates the otherwise dark room, and she realises how late it has become. 

It is then that she wonders whether Wanda went to that restaurant alone. She wonders where she went after that confrontation.

_Why do you care?_ Says the voice, trying to rise up.

She squashes it down, compresses it, trying with all the fight she has left within her.

She knows Wanda’s routine. Force of habit, she’d like to use as an excuse. But it’s not. It’s because somewhere, deep inside of her, in the recesses of her mind, beyond all the conflicting layers and whatever  they  had put there, she cares. When she’s not supposed to.  _Have no attachments. You are marble._

_No_.

So she leaves, goes to track Wanda down where she knows she’ll be at this time. Making her usual tea.

She tells herself it’s just to find out if Wanda is okay.

She’s not there.

_Odd_,  thinks Natasha.  _ She hardly ever deviates from her routine. Perhaps she’s in her room. _

She creeps cat-like down the corridor, no sound emanating from her footsteps. Like her footsteps, there is no sound from Wanda’s room.

She’s wondering why she bothers so much, she knows Wanda should move on, find someone else, find someone who is a whole person, not broken like her.

_Feeling sorry for yourself?_ Mocks the voice.  _These are just facts._

She’s not sure why, but somehow, knowing Wanda is still here right now is important to her.

It’s then that she spots Vision, noticeable by the glow of yellow light from the centre of his synthetic forehead.

_Perhaps the computer knows where Wanda is_ , she thinks hollowly.

“Vision, have you seen Wanda?” She asks, keeping her voice steady. 

“I believe I saw her earlier in the day, she left the compound,” he informs her.

“Did she come back?” She’s trying to hide the panic that laces those words.

“Not yet. Miss Romanoff, you seem slightly distressed,” he annunciates as a loud clap of thunder resonates through the compound.

It’s true, she can’t stop the wave of panic that washes over her.

“No, I’m fine,” she lies.

But now she knows what she must do.

She runs down to the garage, noting that none of the vehicles are missing. Getting into the first car she finds, she knows she just  has to find her.

Because even though she’s not supposed to care, she does.

She doesn’t know what she’d do if anything happened to Wanda.

Nothing good, probably.

Then again, this was why attachments were bad. They made you feel, they made you do reckless things.

Somehow, she pushes past the thoughts clouding her mind and guns the engine, driving out into the darkening night.

She wonders where Wanda had gone.

_Not far_, she reasoned, _she was on foot_. That, in itself, is a little more reassuring.

She opts to drive the roads around the compound and the streets beyond, figuring starting there as the best option.

The weather is unrelenting as the deluge continues to wreak its havoc, the windscreen wipers working over time as Natasha peers out into the semi darkness, hoping desperately to find Wanda, any sign of her.

It’s when she passes by the park, the one they had taken many walks through together in the past— in another time, when things were different, when Natasha was different— that she spots a small, sodden figure sitting on a bench. Alone. It’s her and her heart aches. 

She hadn’t even tried to shield herself from the rain. No umbrella, not even a coat.

It makes Natasha all the more glad that she bought Wanda’s coat with her, when she realised it was still hanging up by the door.

She pulls over, turning off the engine.

Heart hammering, even her, master at manipulating situations, does not quite know how to approach this.

But she walks over, carrying the umbrella she had bought and sits down next to her, holding it over the impossibly soaked Wanda.

She forgets to put it over herself in the process, because all she can think about is bringing the girl back safely.

“Hey,” she says. Admittedly, it’s not the best starting point.

Wanda doesn’t look up, doesn’t so much as move or acknowledge her presence.

Natasha knew this was going to be hard. She doesn’t blame Wanda for being unresponsive, for pretending Natasha isn’t there.

“Let’s get you home,” she tries, squeezing her hand, wishing her to stand, to make some sort of response.

When she does, it’s still with silence, perfunctory, nothing more. 

Well, she didn’t expect much more. Not after how she’d been. It was all her fault.

The silence in the car is even more deafening, broken only by the rain hitting the windshield, ricocheting off like the bullets Natasha had fired at targets earlier that day.

She hands Wanda the coat.

“Put that on, you must be freezing,” Natasha tells Wanda. 

She notices the girl obliges, albeit silently, but, it’s a start.

Natasha opens her mouth, to say something, anything, but realises that, in actuality, she doesn’t know what to say, so promptly closes it again.

Still, the rain slashes at the windows, the faint sound of the radio all but drowned out:

_We were trying but we’re trying no more_

_It’s cold on the floor, its cold on the floor_

_Fitting_ _,_ thinks Natasha with gritted teeth as the lyrics fill the car. 

She keeps her eyes trained on the road, intent on bringing Wanda home safely, but every so often sneaks glances at the girl in the passenger seat. She’s staring out of the window, pointedly away from Natasha, expression blank as the water drips from her hair onto her already soaked clothes.

It sends a sinking feeling to the pit of her stomach, and she’s filled with a longing for times gone by.

Times when they would be driving, just like this, but the car would be filled with laughter and softness and conversation.

When the radio would play music and they would sing their own renditions, laughing at themselves.

_Maybe some things just end_ , thinks Natasha.

But she’d hate to think things would end this way. Caused by her.

_You left me living with a lingering soul,_

_how little you know, how little you know_

_Perhaps_ , thinks Wanda next to her,  _this was their fork in the road_.  She doesn’t want it to be, but maybe this was Natasha’s way of ending it.

_But why then_ , she thinks,  _would she come out here to get me? Maybe she’s just feeling sorry for me._

Wanda doesn’t want to be pitied and she’s filled with a sudden rage. A rage that’s also not just anger but longing, a wish for things to be as they were. Because really she doesn’t want to leave Natasha. To leave behind the last six months that had been so perfect. She doesn’t want it to be over. 

And yet, it seems that Natasha wants it to be that way.

If only she could see the inner turmoil that was Natasha’s mind, but the day’s events had worn away what energy she had remaining. All she could do was sit, head held high, facing herself away from Natasha, wishing she was somewhere else.

They pull into the compound, Natasha parks in the garage and almost immediately, as soon as the engine is off, Wanda gets out.

She walks, footsteps echoing across the ground and takes the elevator up and away from Natasha, leaving the redhead alone in the car, in the silence and the dark.

Natasha closes her eyes, willing the stinging behind them to go away, trying to force back the tears.

Instead a dull _thwack_ resonates inside the car as her head connects with the headrest, hoping the pain will shake her back to reality, hoping it will fix something. It doesn’t. It just leaves an ache to match the one pooling inside of her, in the place others might call a heart.

The heavy feeling doesn’t leave and she finds it requires all of her strength just to get up.

But eventually she’s at the lift, pressing the same buttons Wanda had pressed not moments ago.

——

They’re just at opposite ends of the corridor and yet it feels they’ve never been so far away from each other.

She doesn’t even have the energy to change out of her wet clothes— she can’t think straight either. 

All that comes to mind is the knowledge that she’s ruined it all. She can’t shake the image of the utterly broken forlorn Wanda sitting alone in the rain. That was her fault.

She longs to hit her head again to feel pain because she knows she needs punishment.

Somehow, though, she manages to refrain from doing so.

There are no tears: she just stares blankly at the wall as she sits hunched on her bed.

It’s probably an act of desperation that leads her to do it. She barely registers dialling his number until he answers on the third ring.

“Nat?”

Silence.

“I’ve ruined it all,” she hears herself say, hating how broken she sounds.

Already, Clint knows exactly what she’s talking about but he doesn’t for a second believe anything is ruined.

He knew of the screaming nightmares. The voices that plagued her and everything in between.

“I can’t do this. I’m not strong enough. She deserves someone whole.” The tears she hadn’t allowed herself to shed come freely now, tracking their way down her face until they’re dripping onto her bedspread.

“None of us are whole, Nat. Not even Wanda. Don’t try and pretend otherwise,” his voice soft but firm.

“Wow, thanks,” she returns, sarcasm dripping from her voice. But the animosity the words contain is directed inwards. 

“Well I’m speaking the truth. I think you should go talk to her.”

“She hates me,” says Natasha wretchedly, picking at loose threads on her pillowcase.

“You don’t know that.”

“But I  _do_ ,” protests Natasha, although more quietly now, as though wishing it weren’t true, as though hoping Clint will try and convince her other wise. “You should see the way she looks at me.” She recalls how the light had left Wanda’s blue green eyes, how it was hard to even  see her eyes because she wouldn’t look at Natasha directly anymore. 

“And is it bothering you?”

Well, I, yes—“

“Because you love her,” says Clint triumphantly, interrupting. 

Natasha inhales sharply at those words, because surely she couldn’t. Could she? Love is for children.

“Nat, come on, you can’t hide away from this. The longer you do, the worse it will become. For the both of you.”

_He’s probably right_ , thinks Natasha, although what she’s supposed to do about it she doesn’t know. She already went after her once to no avail. Why would now be any different? And she definitely doesn’t want to be one of those people to go chasing after someone. 

“When was the last time you ate?”

Natasha thinks, _hard_.

There was that half a granola bar on the quinjet on the way back, but that was... a long time ago.

“Not for a while,” she admits. “But I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“Alright,” persists Clint, ignoring Natasha’s last comment. “I’ll bet Wanda hasn’t eaten either, you’re both stubborn fools. So here’s what youre going to do: I’m guessing Steve or Rhodey or someone’s made food, right?”

“I think I saw lasagne in the fridge,” recalls Natasha.

“Good. You’re going to go get yourself and her a plate of lasagne and go find her and just talk. Nat, tell her the truth.”

“But what if—“ 

Clint silences her.

“She’ll understand. She loves you.”

That effectively silences Natasha and Clint adds on: “Wow, who would have thought, the  Black Widow takes relationship advice from  Hawkeye .”

“Shut up!” But there’s a smile in her voice, and Clint hears it before Natasha hears gunshots in the background.

“Gotta go, that’s my cue.”

“You didn’t tell me you were on a mission!”

“Didn’t I? Ah, well that’s not important right now. Now stop stalling and go find Wanda!” With that, he hangs up, leaving Natasha shaking her head: Clint could be so infuriating. Although apparently, he contained more wisdom than she gave him credit for.

She hoped Clint’s words held some truth... especially the part about Wanda understanding. Before she could begin to second-guess herself though, her stomach growled, as though reminding her to go through with the plan, her very body telling her not to make an excuse or find a way out of this. 

So she took Clint’s advice, and minutes later found herself outside Wanda’s door, tray of lasagne in hand, trying to work up the courage to knock. 

When she does, its tentative, but she’s desperately hoping for an answer. That wish, however, isn’t granted the first time around or even the second.

She’s almost ready to give up, to dump the lasagne and retreat back into her own room, when Clint’s words echo in her head. And even if it is hopeless, she knocks again.

“Come in,” says a voice, familiar but weak, as though its owner has spent the last few hours crying.

She most probably has, and the thought is like a sucker punch to the gut.

It’s all she can do to walk in there; it takes every fibre of her being to do so, to stay and stand before Wanda, but she reminds herself that the Black Widow is fearless. Another voice, however, reminds her that where the Black Widow ends, Natasha Romanoff begins, and that perhaps, it is okay to be a little afraid sometimes. Regardless, though, she _has_ to do this. 

All the while, Wanda’s red-rimmed eyes follow her and Natasha notices the almost imperceptible fear and curiosity lingering there.

“I thought you might be hungry.” She’s not sure why, but those words, simple as they are, suddenly seem so hard to get out. It’s as though her throat is closing up, trying to stop her from speaking. She swallows, setting the tray down on a side table but does not dare to sit on the bed— its too presumptuous. Instead she opts to sit, cross-legged, on the floor. 

The reply she’s met with is not exactly one she’s expecting, but one she is sure she deserves.

“Why are you doing this?” Her voice is hoarse and Natasha hears the crack, delaying her reply by offering Wanda a glass of water which she accepts with trembling hands.

From her place on the floor Natasha’s eyes never leave Wanda as she tries togauge her emotions (she’s currently intently staring at the glass in her hands, avoiding Natasha’s eyes).

Taking a deep breath, Natasha says levelly, “because I owe you an explanation.”

Still, Wanda makes no movement, no revealing sign to what she is thinking. She’s a closed book even to the woman who reads people for a living. Perhaps this is hopeless after all.

“I’m sorry,” she begins, and truly she is.

“It’s okay. I guess some this just end,” says Wanda finally. She had long since accepted that this is what Natasha is here to say. 

“What? No! I don’t want things to end!” Natasha cries out, emotion filling her voice. “But if you do, hear me out at least, and then you can decide for yourself.”

_God, I must sound so desperate_ , thinks Natasha, almost disgusted at herself, even now. Nevertheless, she continues. 

“These last few weeks I’ve been distant, cold, I’ve avoided you,”

She pauses, fiddling with her sleeves, unknowingly revealing the red marks littering her wrist.

They don’t escape Wanda’s notice.

“Nat!” she cries out, eyes going wide, voice teetering on the brink and all Natasha’s thoughts and everything she planned to say goes out the window. Instead, she just longs to fall into Wanda’s arms.

If only things were that simple. If only she hadn’t messed up.

She follows the brunette’s gaze, and that’s when she realises what made her cry out so. It’s too late now to try and cover them up, and honestly, Natasha doesn’t know what it is she is supposed to do or say.

“What did you do?” Wanda’s voice brings Natasha back to reality with its abject tone tearing into her thoughts.

She sighs heavily, knowing now that the only way forward is to be entirely honest with the girl sitting opposite her. 

“I-I’ll show you... it’s probably easier,” is what Natasha settles on, preparing to allow Wanda into her mind, bringing all those memories she had tried so hard to bury to the surface.

“If you’re sure?” Questions Wanda, biting her lip in hesitation, and dammit, if Natasha said she didn’t want to kiss her she’d be lying, but it wouldn’t be appropriate, not now, maybe not ever again. 

The redhead nods, allowing her access, jaw set, ready for what she knew would come.

And so Wanda sees. 

_Rows of beds lying in a cold room. _

_Girls, all chained to them, writhing restlessly in their sleep until the skin on their wrists is worn away, opening up the cuts that leave the bloodstains on the pillows._

_Then there is Natasha, as an adult now, doing the same, chaining herself to the bed because it’s become a habit and she doesn’t trust herself. _

The accusations come in thick and fast.

_Monster_

_Who could love you?_

_You do not get to love, Natalia, you were made to kill and that is all._

She sees broken and bloodied natasha as a child, cowering in a dark room before a man and a woman. 

_“You have no need for attachments. Remember, this is what happens if you ever try to form them again.”_

Wanda’s hand trembles. Looking inside Natasha Romanoff’s mind the first time was an unpleasant enough experience. But to look again, invited. That was something she was not prepared for. 

Because it wasn’t just the images, it was thoughts and feelings. _Natasha’s_ thoughts and feelings that she was also able to feel. 

Slowly the red wisps fade and Natasha sits impassively opposite Wanda, who is breaking for Natasha.

“This is why you stayed away” she says softly, moving to sit beside Natasha, rubbing small circles into the back of her hand in the comforting way Natasha had missed. 

“I’m dangerous,” is what Natasha has always hid behind, and maybe now she wishes it were not so, when she sits beside the brunette who seems to care for some unfathomable reason.

“You’re not. You’re not what ever they made you, whatever they forced you to be.”

“You don’t know that. One wrong move and I could kill all of you. That’s why I have to do it. For a while, I thought I had got over it, that I was going straight. But I was wrong. When I slip, I have no control and I can't take that risk. It’s safer this way. That’s why I stayed away.”

“But you _haven't_ hurt anyone,” protests Wanda, desperate for Natasha to see herself the way Wanda sees her. “I know you think you don’t deserve things from life because of your past, but you  picked _Natasha_ not Natalia. Each day you make that choice. To do good in the world, to risk your own life for others. 

These people, who did all those horrible things to you, they have no hold over you now. You are so much more than what they forced you to be. You are who you are  now . Who you have chosen to be.” 

The room falls deathly silent as Natasha tries to digest this and Wanda hopes to whichever gods rule over them that Natasha understands. 

“You are the woman who bakes cookies for me when you think I’m sad. You’re the woman who saves cats from trees. You always beat us all when we play UNO. You play pranks on Steve and Tony and the others. But most of all, you’re the woman I love and nothing is going to change that.” 

A few lone tears streak their way down her face as she looks towards the brunette sitting beside her.

“Who made you so wise?” Laughs Natasha weakly, and that laugh, the one she has not heard for many weeks, is the sound that lets Wanda know that things are going to be alright again. Because its more than a laugh and they both know it. 

“Not sure,” says Wanda lightly, planting a kiss to Natasha’s lips.

Natasha leans into the kiss, savouring the moment. Clint, clearly, was right. Maybe she  should give him more credit. 

“But in all seriousness,” she says finally, her voice still a little unsteady, “I should have told you sooner, let you know what you were getting yourself into with my broken self.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it... I think that’s the American phrase?” Wanda questions, turning to Natasha, who nods, smiling. “I would have wanted to be with you even if you _had_ told me. Because I love you for you. And in any case, I think we’re all a little broken.”

Natasha blinks, Wanda’s words still sinking in and she can’i quite fathom what she did to deserve someone like Wanda.

“Funny,” she says, “that’s what Clint said.”

“Well then, Clint is a very wise person.”

“Yeah right. Have you seen him trying to put socks on?”

“No,” laughs Wanda. 

“Well then you need to. Then you’ll understand that he’s an  idiot .”

But he’s not a _complete_ idiot and Natasha knows that. In fact, she’s currently thanking him in her head, for telling her to come and talk to Wanda, for encouraging her to make things right. 

Wanda shifts until she’s leaning up against Natasha, revelling in the warmth she finds there, both literally and figuratively. 

“Shall we eat now?” She asks, gesturing to the lasagne. 

Natasha lets out a small laugh. “I’d say yes, but I think it’s already gone cold what with all the talking we’ve been doing... and I don’t think you really want twice reheated lasagne,” the last part is posed as a question as Natasha watches Wanda’s expression closely.

“Pizza?” Suggests Wanda, grinning widely.

“You don’t even have to ask,” returns Natasha, handing Wanda’s phone to her to make the order while they both try not to let go of the other, neither one wanting to in case the other disappears. 

Natasha smiles as she watches Wanda beside her, the way her hair falls over her face, the way the light of the screen captures the blue-green of her eyes, how Wanda is wearing a smile to match her own. 

And maybe now, Natasha thinks to herself, when the past caught up, it wouldn’t be so bad. Because Wanda would be there. Her grounding wire.  _Home_. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!  
As always, comments are much appreciated x


End file.
